Darth Maul vs Superman
by dannytyang
Summary: EPISODE I - The Man of Steel and the legendary Sith assassin, Darth Maul, mysteriously appear on a barren, deserted planet where each warrior must participate in an epic battle to the death.
1. Chapter 1

DARTH MAUL VS. SUPERMAN

EPISODE I

His nerve center cried silently in overdrive, the very fabric of his being awash in a muted timbre of death, one that the Man of Steel was not unfamiliar with. He screamed in anguish after barreling into the ground from an unknown distance for at that moment he was no longer a Superman. Not while blood trickled down his brow, nor while his orbital bones pulsated with a fractured pain too brutal to relent against. Exhausted from his fall, the last son of Krypton stood and then unceremoniously collapsed onto the dry, cracked ground of an unforeseen and unknown alien land.

The wretched pain in his body brought an unbearable weight, one that held him tightly against the floor. His fingers, each strong enough to snap the strongest titanium strand, fluttered amongst the rock beneath him. The Kryptonian was searching for the tell-tale molecules of sun drenched exposure, suctioning the energy of his adopted homeworld into his ravenous and damaged body. However, the Man of Steel quickly realized his fingers clawed at soil which provided no such nourishment for his Kryptonian form. Drenched in sweat, his right hand caked in blood, he forced his fingertips further into the hard ground, sinking his digits into the soil . Sensitive to a microscopic degree, this foreign land lacked the familiar, soothing radiance of land bathed in the yellow sunlight of Mother Earth's ecosystem.

This ground was baked harshly in an environment that felt as if it was plunged into the core of a million stars, one after another without care or reason. Superman glanced at his body, and remembering years of complacency derived from the malaise of thousands of one-sided battles against Earthlings, he now discovered something anew: True pain.

The shock of agony washed over his skin, jolting his facilities. This planet did not sustain him as generously as the soil of Earth enlivened by a generous sun, but the Kryptonian required he sustenance, knowing that his mortal being relied on whatever nutrients he could seize from the alien grounds.

_I am weak. I am dying…_

In moments of his youth, the alien who would be known as the Man of Steel came to understand the extent of his invulnerability, bringing about adolescent contemplation of his own end. And now, even in this moment of pure anguish, in this cursed moment of becoming a mindless beast in eternal pain, even he, in some ethereal sense, knew if he were to perish mere physicality would not end his being. He was forever, the immortal, the man that was the god that refused to be god to be a man.

_I could just shut my eyes. Rest. And the pain would fade into the darkness of slumber…_

But yet Superman continued the struggle, denying the grip of what was an inevitable end. He chose consciously to suffer, to live, to endure.

_Lois…_

All for the love of a woman. The incessant memory of his deceased foe General Zod prompted a new level of self-disdain within the Man of Steel. For Zod knew Lois was a woman, but more importantly, a human woman, an Earthling. She was inferior in all comparison to even the slightest Kryptonian, no less the Last Son of Krypton. Part of Zod's incredulity at the half-breed's misplaced logic was that Kal-El sought to protect a world that feared his powers. Even the Man of Steel wondered in his most heartfelt, clandestine moments wondered whether his eventual demise was to come more readily from a familiar "friend" rather than unknown foe. All due to his commitment in becoming a child of Earth, a backwards, violent planet where his countenance was the only similarity he shared with its native populace. These were Zod's words; one of the few Kryptonians that survived the destruction of their homeworld. What hope did Earth have, when Krypton, with its extreme technology and advanced civilization gave way to civil war and destruction? Earth had a mere fraction of the ingenuity of his descendants, yet in their evolutionary infancy, mankind was precariously close to a sudden and violent end.

Even though Superman's love for his adopted homeworld was unrivaled, he questioned the wisdom of the greater minds of the planet Earth. After all the bylines written by Clark Kent regarding violence in a brutal world for the Daily Planet, he had increasing doubts about his ability in saving a planet so devoted to destroying itself.

The waves of pain shook him from his doldrums. Lois, he thought, and for a moment, as his head grew light and threatened to cease functioning, he urged his mind to stir. Superman understood that his adopted planet, his lifetime on Earth, had weakened his biology in one significant manner; his body had acclimated much too well to the Earth's geological generosity, and now so far from his adopted home, his injuries from his immense fall left him weary, unsteady, and half dead.

He thought again of the woman known as Lois Lane. He denied she was the reason he remained on Earth, but his mind relented through the pain to a decided truth; she was the representation of what Kal-El, Clark Kent, and Superman felt was essentially good about the humanity. Without her, or were it were not for the Kents, his adopted parents, his loyalty to the green and blue sphere would not have endured with all the corruption and evil he had seen.

Yet, never did he think to question why he should stay on Earth; if he were deliberate, even logical in thought, the answer would lead him down a dark, but truthful realization.

His hand squeezed the ground tighter, to the point where the friction of his grasp turned the minerals into a milky, diamond like substance. At least, thought Superman, there was carbon within the soil, enough to impact upon compression. Though this world was alien, its roots were not as distant as it appeared at first glance. Hidden power, fuel for his soul, lingered in the particulates of the planet's red soil.

The Man of Steel felt the fog lift over his thoughts, the disorientation parting enough to allow a clear thought. The Kryptonian placed his left hand gingerly on his ribs, realizing though this planet's gaia provided him with sustenance, the energy wasn't nearly the same as the surge of power he received under the Earth's yellow sun. It was as if he were soaking power through a clogged funnel, a bottleneck in some form limiting the rate and volume in which Superman could attain full functionality.

"Some Man of Steel," Superman muttered, a dizzy spell still playing havoc with his senses. It was his self-impression that shrunk in stature with each breath of the alien air. He almost chuckled; the most powerful man in the Milky Way reduced to a stumbling, bumbling, piercing headache. "This is what it must be like to feel drunk," Superman, or rather, his more "human" persona, Clark Kent thought. But how would Clark Kent understand the vagaries of sensation that came with inebriation. Not when his true self could never succumb to any such banal peril as too much drink.

Superman rubbed dry, red dirt from his eyes, realizing that the grit was practically embedded into his pupils. For a moment, through the grime, his eyes focused just long enough to catch a metallic glint in the distance, a kilometer or more from his position according to the Man of Steel's extended vision. A stern, dry wind coursed through the desolate, barren flatlands, and, once again, his superhuman eyes fought to refocus on the mysterious object.

However, what was once there was now gone, and try as he may to strain the muscles in his eyes to its full telescopic capacity, Superman saw nothing save a flatland of red, cracked dirt underneath a cloudless red sky. It was as if he were watching this foreign land through a red filter. After adjusting his vision through the various degrees of its all-seeing capacity, Superman saw nothing save endless barren lands surrounded by mountains on the fringes of the horizon.

He leapt up in the air, only to stumble and collapse, out of breath, winded. It was a new sensation, to feel the pull of fatigue, to see his Kryptonian uniform, with its fabled "S" shaped family crest so dingy, dirtied by the dark splotches of black and red stains. The marks on his suit were telling; his hard landing on this world was of such force that the edges of his cape were frayed, and his Kryptonian garb, torn.

It would take an impact beyond comprehension to tear the Kryptonian fabric of my suit, Superman thought. Then, feeling his body finally adjusting to this strange land, he finally stood without falling. He immediately felt the aches and pains in his body, and the red sun that shone directly above him but brought only a dim modicum of invigoration to this parched land. But he was drawing energy from this sun. Thus, he was drawing life.

He struggled to fly once more, only to breathlessly grab his chest. The heavy air was different, the sunlight was different, he was different, here in this abstraction of hell for the Man of Steel. For Superman, though cognizant of his ever present abilities, felt the harsh warmth of the red sun stripping him of his strength. With every painful gasp of the planets thick, almost tangible atmosphere, Superman felt reduced, more like Clark Kent than the Man of Steel.

The thought chilled him; now he was closer to being human than achieving the physical feats of a Kryptonian. His power was weakened, hence, his belief in himself suffered from a doubt that, though inarticulate, was as ever present as the ground underneath his feet. He was a shadow of the omnipotent being of Earth's lore. All he could wonder was how long must he stay in this Hades before he had the strength to leave.

He glided several feet off the ground before the unbearable pain and heavier gravity of the realm forced him down. The Man of Steel soon realized he was marooned on this planet, and in an uncharacteristic fit of fear, he screamed in frustration at this devil of a world, at the stars in the sky, but mostly at the man he once was, and for who the man he would never be again.

The Dathomiri's sickly red pupils glowed underneath the black shroud draped over his head. The rough hem of dark fabric hid the coiled energy that lived underneath the robes of the dark Jedi, but Darth Maul felt nothing. Not the tangle of the heat stream as warm blasts of current fluttered almost tangibly as liquid over his garb. Not as dry wind brushed his hide where blood red skin met the scarred darkness of black tattoos carved into his being as well as his soul.

Those lines of dark, criss-crossing strata, sliced underneath his epidermis in a violent, bloody ceremony was a constant reminder of the man's place amongst the Sith; he was a beast, one to be branded, one to be used and then left to die. But the horned creature, lost in the shadows of his dark thoughts, moved underneath the sharp angles of his spacecraft, the Sith Interceptor. With sanctuary from the red sun overhead, he regained his sense of all knowing vigilance, secure in the knowledge that the Sith Interceptor overhead ran its stealth generators making it near invisible, even at this distance. Darth Maul stood mere meters from the landing gear of the Interceptor, yet only his discerning eyes could make out the rough outline of the craft along with the steady hum of pulsating energy needed to preserve the illusion of invisibility.

He reached underneath his cloak and retrieved a pair of image enhancers.

_There_, he thought, as he watched through his device, seeing a sign of life. _A weakling fool of such childish costume floating in the air before falling back to ground_. His enhancer technology assisted in allowing him to see the damage to the being. However, it was his dark force focus ability that enabled Maul to sense the severity of the man's injuries. The realm of sorcery that germinated from within the recesses of what made Darth Maul a Dark Lord slowly reached out in invisible waves, sensing the fool's vulnerabilities and weaknesses.

_This thing wishes not to harm despite his power. He feels a need for pittance for all that he has harmed or killed. A fool amongst fools, even greater than the Jedi. _

The Dathomiri's mind raced for a moment as the savagery reared through his passionate nature. For whatever reason, his soul and all of the darkness within it cried for his hands to overtake this fool of a man now, while he was weakened, for his Sith sense whispered that this man-creature in blue was a powerful adversary and one that was not to be taken lightly.

Maul's own vision confirmed that impression. The man in the foreign blue garb moved unsteadily, but moved nevertheless. Even after Maul watch as he plunged from an unfathomable height into the hard packed ground of this lost world, he still lived. The Dathomiri questioned if even the mightiest of the Dark Lords of the Sith could achieve survival from such a feat. The answer, he surmised, was that nearly all would perish. Yes, this being was of great strength, his only weakness was his character.

No matter, he thought. In order to claim his goal of attaining status as the mightiest of the Dark Lords, Maul knew he must be tested against the pinnacle in adversarial quarries. Once he defeated this fool-man, he would resume training, developing his force powers in secret. Then, that old Sith bastard Darth Sidious would pay for his crimes against his weakened, childhood self. His master's death would be fruitless, but necessary; it satisfied the rage within the lost child Sidious stole from the womb of his homeworld. Nothing would alter the brief history of the boy that he was, the memory as dim as the stars are bright. But the glory of this vengeance, after countless years of servitude to the wizened Dark Lord Sidious, was a reward not lost on the endless fires that burned within Maul.

Darth Maul inhaled deeply, raising his hand towards the man in blue, extending his consciousness towards his prey. Already, the sickening sense of naïveté radiated from this dull creature. His vile sense of righteousness mimicked the antiquated testaments of the Jedi. The Jedi, he chuckled with disdain, with their hypocritical roles as peace keepers amongst the galaxy's bureaucrats. All fools, the horned Sith Lord thought, every idealistic one of them, and their demise would make the galaxy no weaker.

It was always the very same galaxy that erupted into endless power struggles whether the fools were in government or indulging in government's true nature; war mongering. Yet these very same philistines, who brandished war staffs with a pound of their chests, did so with indecisiveness, without conviction. However the Sith, was especially well suited for the inevitable battle that was yet to come. For as long as Maul was a perpetual hunter and an unrivaled duelist, he would forever be a Sith; he would always desire death and destruction, the penultimate truth to the Sith existence.

Maul had the singular comprehension of the Sith; that all existence, especially that pertinent to the Republic, cowered in private while speaking of strength in public. To rain death down on his foes, to stand as they lain with his double bladed weapon with its crimson glow in tow were persistent, constant thoughts that Darth Maul would continually revel in. His vision of the enemy's freshly cauterized blood sizzling off his lightsaber, the inevitable blood truth exposed to the outside world; flesh split open, viscera cooling painfully as the light shined out of their eyes, a dream of what Maul truly cherished and lived for.

_Yes, he must defeat this foe of foes. _It was in his nature to conquer, to dominate, and who was Maul not to provide satisfaction to the Sith blood that coursed through his body.

Though Darth Maul did not understand how he was deposited in this alien realm, it did not trouble him. A lifetime of Sith slavery had encumbered him to adversity. Whatever circumstances brought him to this world at the very least did not drop him from the skies as it did his powerful costumed foe. He also was granted his Sith Interceptor, his starship, his lonely companion amongst the darkness of space. Along with the normal arsenal of speeder bike, droids and other tools of his dark trade, Darth Maul felt he could defeat any being no matter how powerful. Why the alien was left with only the tatters of a ridiculous and impractical uniform while Maul was given his bounty of weaponry was a question that held no meaning for him. It accomplished no task. And if anything, the Sith known as Darth Maul only existed for the mission and nothing else. Nothing else mattered. Not to a Sith.

The dark arts were too powerful for any being, Maul thought, the tightness of his grimace resembling a dark, pained smile. Yes, the hidden reservoirs of power that only the Sith could command would reign supreme on this day, existing through an invisible air of dread and fear that was palpable and thick. There would be no salvation from its grasp, no shelter from the steady shadow of doom that shrouded all in the tightness of Maul's clenched fist. A fist he envisioned wrapped around his prey's throat, gently squeezing, almost caressing the life out of the creature.

From his vantage point underneath the Sith Interceptor, the Dathomiri extended his power over the force to the forefront of its range. He watched as the man in blue turned, somehow sensing Darth Maul's mindful invasion of his spirit. Immediately, the horned figure ceased his unseen inquiry, lowering his hand, stepping further back, deeper underneath the recesses of the Interceptor. The Sith felt uneasy at being discovered.

_How can this being, so beneath my skills, sense my presence_? It was as if the mere thought of this costumed fool acknowledging Maul's presence was the gravest of insults to his Sith pride; a travesty so grave, that it produced an unquenchable rage within Maul. The man in blue turned to face him, as if he could sense the anger welling in Maul, even though the Sith was confident that the Interceptor's stealth engines were functional and holding.

Maul's hand slowly made its way underneath his cloak, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his lightsaber. The Sith thought of the best way to extract his weapon, draw it, and ignite the power in its dual bladed ends. Maul imagined the quick parry, the swinging thrust, the decapitation; clean, quick.

The man in blue, groggily, unsteadily, walked towards Maul. Granted, Maul was still a great distance from his prey, still safe beneath the Sith Interceptor, lost in his own… _Phantom Zone_. Maul found it perplexing for a moment, knowing that the foreign phrase "_Phantom Zone_" was obviously a latent mental draw from his force powers imbedding itself in the man in blue; his Sith powers revealing hidden details of the creature's thoughts. Maul tentatively extended himself further into his target's mind, probing deeply, find words and images, nonsensical to him, yet clues to his adversary's true nature.

The man took several more steps towards Maul. The Dark Lord immediately retracted his power of mind extension. He'd already taken too many chances at revealing himself directly to this inferior being, but from the information he gleaned, it was worth the risk.

_He thinks like a Jedi_. They were small, narrow thoughts that began and ended with an abstraction of justice that ignored the squalid, brutal methods that bring about such results. But the Sith sensed something else within the man and for a moment a jolt of terror found its way down the Sith's spine. Darth Maul's composure never ceased, as was the Sith way, but it was too late; Maul knew a brief moment of fear, and the chill shamed and angered him.

The man in blue took one more tentative step closer, his feet crunching against the arid, blood red ground. The Sith fingered his saber wielding hand, locked and unmoving on the handle of his weapon. He had slowly put his image enhancer away, fearful that the glare of its lenses would be too telling of his perch. But even without mechanically enhanced eyesight, the Sith could vaguely make out the symbol on the man in blue's chest with his enhanced Force vision.

_A curved sign with a roughly diamond shaped geometrical symbol. _Maul didn't recognize the language or even if the symbol meant anything past its rather banal appearance.

However, it appeared as if this man, this…_super man_… could sense the Sith's presence. Though Maul felt this…_Kryptonian_…had little mastery of the force. Yet here they were, a vast distance apart, staring at one another with their senses, their feelings more than mere physical vision. Maul surmised that if so much could be learned of the Kryptonian through his use of the Force, this _Superman_, a being with formidable powers, may have learned something of Maul's own skills.

Darth Maul remained still, moving his index finger ever so slightly. The cargo doors of the Sith Interceptor opened slowly, quietly. From out of the cavernous hold of the starship emerged a black probe droid.

Maul twitched another finger.

Another droid hummed to life as it was activated. He held his hand steady and both probes fluttered in place ready to obey his commands. They fluttered mere meters above ground, rising ever so slightly to Maul's eye level. A flick of his fingers and a short burst of the Force implemented the attack formulations he had pre-programmed within the probe' attack protocols.

The man in blue reacted as if could hear the probes charge their primary weapons. Impossible, thought Maul, knowing that at this distance the creature couldn't possibly hear…yet, the living Force indicated that this Superman had natural powers that matched any of his greatest adversaries. He watched as the super man moved forward, unsteadily, then, in a feat worthy of his moniker, rose in the air in a forceful leap.

Maul quickly waved his probe droids forward, taking a silent pleasure with his own foresight; he had altered the droids with a detachment of heavy weaponry, diminishing their ability to spy, but increasing their ability to hurt, maim, and kill. The black probes rocketed towards the target on powerful anti-gravity engines, each droid possessing twin blasters that continuously fired a kaleidoscope of concentrated laser blasts. The man in blue, suddenly aware of the attack, deftly avoided the first battery of lasers, unaware that Maul followed behind the droid's distractive attack, coursing through the air on the back of his speeder bike.

Maul leapt from his speeder, pirouetting in the air while simultaneously igniting his lightsaber in a deft swing, nearly slashing through the neck of this Superman. If it weren't for the Kryptonian's acute senses, this fool would have been yet another adversary lost to the Sith's crimson blade. But Kal-El's Kryptonian reflexes were too fast for the directness of the Sith's deadly gambit. And though the man in blue howled in agony, the pain forcing him to collapse to a single knee, he was able to dodge another violent swing from Maul's lightsaber before leaping backwards to a distance the Sith could not easily close.

Maul stared at the Man of Steel in unabashed rage; he sensed the wounds he carved on the Kyptonian beast were not winning blows. The dark rage in the Sith overwhelmed his tactical senses; he declined to call back his droids for a secondary attack. For a reason unknown to his dark sensibilities, Darth Maul wanted, _no, needed_, to destroy this Superman with his bare hands.

The man, the one that Maul had come to know in his mind's eye as Superman, gathered himself and stood up to face the Sith. Maul, feeling forces gathering against him, ignited the second blade of his lightsaber, readying himself just as Superman's eyes began to glow a brilliant red. Twin beams of light erupted from his pupils, the force and power of the blast making his skin translucent, making his orbital bones pulsate with a red hot radiance.

Darth Maul slashed with his weapon, spinning his lightsaber in deflective patterns, swatting away the brilliant lasers with his own energy based mainstay. The Man of Steel's attack did not cease however, as he continued to blast at Maul, and though the Sith was able to use his lightsaber to defend himself, the pure red heat from the Man of Steel's rays of light set his cloak on fire. With disdain, Darth Maul cast off his shroud, revealing the jet black robe he wore underneath. He sensed this Superman was losing energy from his projectile assault, and for a moment, the Sith settled, almost relaxed.

The force of Kal-El's next heated gaze, though deflected by Maul's lightsaber, was powerful enough to knock Maul off his feet. His Sith training, allowed him the aerial acrobatics to somersault and land perfectly as such. But, of course, the Sith Lord only knew perfection, and despite the massive blast, he landed a safe distance away, able to regain his fighting position; having his lightsaber at the ready to block, parry and attack once more.

The Sith expected the Kryptonian to attack suddenly, following his attack with another melee consisting of pure rage. It was then that Darth Maul, the champion of a hundred duels would prevail.

_His anger, his rage will consume him. He will attack blindly. He will fail. And I will cut him down like any other foe that should challenge me._

But, the Kryptonian stood silently, his ever present composure barely finding purchase amidst the mountain of rage he felt building towards this demon of a man.

Hence, Superman and the Sith were left facing one another. There was a long silence as both men breathed the heavy air of the planet, following each other's movement with hooded, unblinking eyes. There was no room for words in the distance between them, nothing that could be said to defuse their mutual hatred. Each man held his ground waiting and watching while the world turned underneath them. Then, without hesitation, the duelists attacked one another, and the planet they stood underneath them shook with the effort.

END EPISODE I – DARTH MAUL VS. SUPERMAN

Notes:

*** Episode II of this series will be completed only with additional interest by the Star Wars/Man of Steel/Fan Fiction community. Due to a tight time schedule, I will only create Episode II if I achieve at least 100 positive responses from the sci-fi community. Please indicate interest in the creation of another episode in this series by contacting me directly at: danny .

Also, interested individuals may indicate interest in the creation of an Darth Maul vs. Superman - Episode II (or just chat about it) by contacting me at the following forums:

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	2. Chapter 2

DARTH MAUL VS. SUPERMAN

EPISODE II

Sunshine basked on rippling stalks of wheat that stretched to an endless horizon; if there was a better symbol for the hope of humanity Clark Kent could not find one. The Kryptonian inhaled deeply, free of the stressors of a city, a country, a planet. The acres of this quiet land brought Earth's adopted son a private solace that penetrated the daily turmoil of the life of the Man of Steel. Despite the changes he had incurred over the turbulent times since his "Superman" persona's first appearance, the farm consistently remained his touchstone; an eternal fixture of the mind readily bringing forth memories of Clark's idyllic past. The Man of Steel searched for a sanctuary of the heart for the entirety of his unsettled adolescent life, only finding it during manhood amongst the age old crop fields of the Kent Farm; the only place on Earth planet he felt the peace of a place called home.

The rays of Earth's yellow sun cast warmth on Clark's skin, and, as he closed his eyes, a soft Kansas wind raced over him emerging from impossibly blue skies. Kal-El removed the useless spectacles he wore, letting the translucent glow of the sun's radiation energize his cells, bathing his body in a nourishing aura. He found a true grace amongst the nature of his adopted home, though reluctantly acknowledging that mankind, for all its potential, acknowledged strife and misery more readily than any lasting brotherhood.

A frown creased the brow of the Last Son of Krypton as he meditated on his condition. With age and time, the Man of Steel came to an uneasy agreement between the thoughts that resided in his character, for he was a child of two worlds, precariously perched on an eternal slate of danger. The Earth with its violent character would always be a breath away from self-destruction, but worse, Krypton was no more, its only legacy carried within Kal-El's mortal vessel. His responsibility on Earth overshadowed the memory he carried of a long dead world that lived now only within his private genealogy.

The skin around Clark's eyes wrinkled with thoughts born from memories quite the opposite of the Kansas twilight that surrounded him. For when Clark Kent conjured images of the streets of Metropolis in his mind's eye, he immediately did so with eternal caution, remembering moments where his enhanced hearing became more curse than benefit. Life in the largest city on the planet was notoriously difficult, even for a Superman. Clark, at times, compared the city to residing in a high-priced refugee camp: It was the world's priciest extended stay hotel, and people of all walks of life ventured to the city, living though the vast human energy that pulsated amongst the sheer mass of humanity. It was a radiance that was cast on every inhabitant that lived amongst the hustle and bustle of the pinnacle of all contemporary urban landscapes. And yet, despite the constant stimulation, Clark knew the City of Metropolis was the last place anyone could genuinely call home.

He opened his eyes, now seeing the land of his childhood. The solitary nature of what was beholden to him invigorated Clark Kent, the man that was raised in a town jokingly referred to as Smallville.

_You can take the boy out of Smallville, but never the Smallville out of the…_

But then Kal-El thought of Metropolis's need for him. A desperate need. The screams, the cries, the world deprived of laughter and love, that held baited breath underneath the specter of brutality called to Clark and him alone for rescue. At times the Man of Steel was lost amongst the sea of violence that lived underneath Metropolis's countenance of civility. Then the harshness of word that was evoked by these beings once they were defeated at the hands of the Man of Steel provided him with yet another view of the ugliness of mankind. Though he always held his fists as well as his tongue, Superman always held a constant thought at bay: Is mankind's history made a moment better by Superman's involvement?

Clark's resentment of his position on his adopted world boiled with dark thoughts as he realized that with his abilities he could act as executioner as well as judge. The Man of Steel caught himself entangled in his own secret fury, understanding innermost thoughts that too closely resembled that of his birth father's murderer, the species-centric General Zod. It was Zod that chastised the younger, bastardized Krytonian, who indicated in no uncertain words that the displacement of an entire species of humanity meant nothing in order to revive their own master race. It pained him to remember the words that Zod spoke. Of how Kal-El turned his back on his own biological species, his only true kin in the universe, to protect and honor beings that were mere microbes on an evolutionary scale.

Zod defined the situation with words that cut straight to the heart of the Man of Steel, for Kal-El knew the words rang with the truthfulness of a pained logic. Earth's own history was defined by each succeeding civilization displacing the native inhabitants, colonizing new lands while displaying complete apathy towards those that came before. Time and time again, Clark realized that Earth's history has been of the greater taking from the weaker underneath a banner of entitlement or a misguided sense of manifest destiny.

_Are all great things of this planet, this universe, built amongst the cowering of the lesser?_

Jonathan Kent, in order to hide his adopted son from the scorn of ignorance, had told Clark of the folly of belief in a species still more caveman then man. After Clark's act of bravery and kindness upon saving the lives of his fellow classmates caught in a freak bus accident, he remembered his father's fateful words. Jonathan Kent questioned whether Clark should have allowed those children to perish even though Clark alone possessed the power to save them. His father believed in the land of the spiritual, of a creator, of a world beyond death. Where his faith lacked was in his own species; humanity.

_Was dad right? Was Zod logically the next step in the history of the planet Earth?_

These questions weighed heavily on the young Kryptonian, and only a venture to the warm breezes of the Kent farm, safe from the cries and screams of the city allowed him a peace that was ill-suited for a being coined the Man of Steel.

His footsteps echoed on the planks of wood of Martha Kent's porch as he approached the house. Countless times he had raced through the screen door, thumped over those very same wooden planks, raced past the windmill, to farmland beyond. Clark opened the screen door slowly, making sure its creaky hinges didn't announce his presence. He walked inside, familiar with the surroundings. Same end tables, same couch, same chairs, maybe a new set of flowers; a new frame on an old photo, but everything was timeless, a window to Clark's youth that would forever be there for him. The new television that he had bought his mother still sat in a box, next to the dinosaur model that was almost as large as a dining room table.

_She's waiting for me to put it together_, Clark smiled. _Good ole' Mom, always the technophobe, even with a spaceship sitting in her barn for nearly three decades_.

Clark remained silent as he walked through his old home out of respectfulness to his mother, but also to silently gauge how she currently lived. The upkeep of the house was slightly slack, only minute enough for his Kryptonian eyes to catch; the subtle lack of dusting, the almost fastidious use of wood oil on the wooden banister and staircase that Martha Kent used to express monthly had not been done for some time.

He realized that he had not been back to Smallville to help out his mother, Clark admitted to himself guiltily. The time spent at The Daily Planet, with its exceedingly short deadlines, the low pay, the constant threat of being laid off in another round of cutbacks, made Clark Kent a tireless worker in the office.

And then, there was Lois and the growing difficultly in restraining his obvious feelings for her. He wondered if it was reciprocal, as she bounced from one story to the next, as if her Pulitzer was more of a burden than a professional recognition. Clark's physiology required little rest, yet when he entered the office or left the offices of The Daily Planet, Lois Lane always seemed knee deep in a lead, a hunch, a story in some distant corner of the world while never holding the same interest for the world that immediately surrounded her. In the office, she never looked at him twice, and more than once demanded errands from the junior reporter from some Podunk town that no one had ever heard of.

_They're saying we're going all electronic next year. That means typesetters are getting cut, the presses are going to lose some more machinists, and they're still picking up junior rubes from the barn?_

Clark understood the competitive nature of journalism, with the Internet creating the death buzz of the end of printed media. And Clark, with his outwardly mastery of the primitive computer system that he had to dial down in front of his colleagues, was the threat to a system that was archaic and tilting on its foundations.

But despite the logic in Lois Lane ignoring him at The Daily Planet, it didn't help assuage the deep seated bitterness he felt in being left out of the social elite of journalism.

_She's pushing me away,_ he thought, and at times, despite how well he grew to cherish her company in a silent meeting of hands underneath a table, like school kids in junior high, she was constantly vigilant in his presence. At first, Clark thought it was due to the game their roles required them to play; he was a junior reporter from nowhere, she was at the top of the field and had her pick of coverage, and each was supposedly unacquainted.

_And the government still observed her, tapped her phones, and invaded her privacy in the ways it knew how. Still…not like having drones flying over you, constantly trying to gauge your strengths like a science project._

It was horrible, considering the cost of the aircrafts, but the Man of Steel had no qualms about wrecking the unguided aerial vehicles. He was tempted to fly to the military bases and preemptively destroy the spying devices, but he held his anger in check.

Lois, on the other hand, could never hope to protect her privacy in remotely the same manner, yet there was no escaping her own newfound fame; Superman, as she had so coined, was the biggest story in the history of humanity, a story that had already been spoken in a global dialogue with universal fervor. The strain of their relationship pushed her deeper into her work, further from him, and soon he wondered aloud if their bond could endure the scrutiny of an entire planet.

There were attempted amends as he bought her modest flowers in a vain attempt to rendezvous at a small, out of the way restaurant that coworkers at The Planet would never stumble upon. Lois never showed, choosing to leave a voicemail, explaining about a story she couldn't easy rip herself from. _Another story of yet another banana republic, in a hellhole of Earth promising the destruction of the American way._ _She'd miss him, was already on a plane, and didn't want him to know where she was going because he'd stop her._

Funny, he thought, she'd take an assignment in a warzone to get away from what she…what they both had become. In her message, with a patois of desperation, Lois blurted that she had to go back to being who she was before all of "this craziness" invaded her life. So it was no surprise that Clark found himself returning to Smallville to do very much the same. He needed to know who he was beyond the Man of Steel, beyond being Superman to the planet Earth, beyond being a form of living impedance to a human woman who he had developed feelings for.

Clark, lost in thought, reeling in aspects of his own personal world of great and small, absentmindedly stumbled upon one of Martha Kent's most private moments. Once again his world was made all the more fragile, and more importantly, it was a fragility that there was no return from.

* * *

The flash of ruby colored light swirled violently above Kal-El's head, briefly grazing the side of his skull; as the lightsaber briefly kissed the side of his face, the Man of Steel reached out in obvious pain. Swatting Maul's bladed instrument away only made Kal-El's situation worse as the Sith reversed his swing, spinning the deadly blades of his lightsaber until the second blade of the double bladed weapon careened off the other side of the Man of Steel's face.

The maneuver was so deft, so remorseless and perfect in execution, that the Man of Steel was more surprised than pained; no being had ever matched his true Kryptonian reactions, a level of speed that he kept in check to blend in amongst Earthlings. But here, in this barren wasteland of a planet, his speed was simply not enough. The Man of Steel's agony enraged him to the point that he swung blindly at the demon like visage of the creature, only to miss Darth Maul completely.

_Your movements are telling, young fool._

The thought appeared in Kal-El's mind as this…Darth Maul...extended his arm out, striking out with an invisible force that felt as though it would separate Clark's head from his body.

_You are spoiled child of considerable strength. But not a warrior…_

The words again appeared in Kal-El's mind blinding him once again to the onslaught that the Sith exuded from his lithe form. The Last Son of Krypton opened his eyes only to have Maul rip rock and gravel from the barren ground, launching the debris at the Man of Steel's eyes.

Superman, in one of the rare moments of his young life, was completely defensive, absorbing the burning blows of Maul's dual headed lightsaber. The Sith swung with impunity against the Kryptonian's defenses, scorching Kal-El's skin with controlled, precise strikes. Kal-El realized that Darth Maul was not faster than the Man of Steel, even in Superman's damaged state, but the creature seemed to have the precognitive foresight to know when Kal-El would move and what he would do.

Reacting to the blows, Kal-El was deflecting the worst of Darth Maul's slashes with his own hands, glancing blows nevertheless rendering his limbs numb, his pain receptors cast in a swirling agony no mere mortal could ever hope to endure.

Clark sensed the advantage the Sith was exercising over his being; the cunning creature had a foothold in his mind, goading him into standing his ground, maneuvering him like a puppet. With his strength and speed, the Man of Steel was fooled into thinking this creature would be a lesser adversary only to discover that his Kryptonian physiological advantages were easily nullified with Sith battle tactics. It was not his Kryptonian might that would defeat this beast of a man. If he were to survive this encounter with Darth Maul, the Man of Steel would need to defeat him with thought first, then brawn.

The Man of Steel reached into the depths of his own mind, realizing that this creature had played with his emotions, bringing out the worst in Kal-El's Kryptonian heritage. Kryptonians as a species had been so dominant for so many eons that they perished out of sheer pride; pride that their vast intellect and technology could not succumb to the simplicity of resource overuse. It was this same pride bordering on arrogance that would lead to the Kryptonian's demise unless he himself changed. With a deep breath, the Man of Steel consciously altered the directness of his ham fisted attack, altering his posturing of sheer power in an attempt to match his adversary's immense advantage in martial skill, sheer brutality, and unwavering will.

It was the Man of Steel that executed a faint with his southpaw, but it was Clark Kent who remembered the boxing maneuver taught to him in his tumultuous adolescence by Jonathan Kent. The move, so sudden, done without forethought, was seemingly ignored by Maul's offensive posture; Maul's experience with all things martial was near impossible to faze, the Sith never appearing to be caught unaware or on his heels in battle. However, the appearance of this tactical inclusion, from a being he otherwise considered a skill-less combatant no less, instilled a moment of surprise in Darth Maul.

Kal-El, fatigued and disoriented from Maul's vicious and continuous onslaught, quickly realized this was the moment; the only crack in the Dark Lord's superior battle tactics. Sensing his opening, Superman struck with what was left of his rapidly diminishing reservoir of energy. Swallowing his pride, the Man of Steel decided to backpedal.

The Man of Steel channeled all that remained of his strength, expelling it in a single, violent outburst of energy, propelling himself into the air in a desperate leap. The Sith derived little satisfaction from the Kryptonian's retreat, restraining himself from swinging his lightsaber, already calculating the futility of an attempted melee attack on the mobile Kryptonian. The Sith watched as the Kryptonian created separation between the two combatants, rescuing his cowardly self from the continuous attack of the Dark Lord's dual bladed, crimson weapon.

_You cannot escape coward_, the Dark Lord said aloud_, And your pleas will go unheard when my blade meets your worthless hide_. Despite the Man of Steel's temporary respite from the Sith's intolerable offensive, Kal-El knew it was a temporary respite and prepared himself from the inevitable Sith attack.

Darth Maul calmly gestured with his fingers, a faint movement so subtle on first glance it was innocuous; what ensued was wrought with devastating consequences. Superman heard the faint whirl of machinery and spun to see the obsidian probe droids angling, towards him from separate, angles, flanking him. The probes' turbolasers simultaneously created an explosion of plasmatic light against his torso and the small of his back, sending him somersaulting in the air. The Man of Steel crashed to the ground, landing in a rough crouch. His impact created a cracked divot in the hard packed, red soil before the Superman sprung into the air as the two droids flew past him, banking to make another pass.

The Man of Steel dodged another series of quick blasts from both automations, twisting in the air, while focusing his eyes on one of the black droids. His orbital bones glowed in various scarlet hues as his eyes erupted with twin beams of deadly light, immediately cutting down one of the droid sentries, turning the deadly machine into a husk of burning metal.

Superman fought his natural instinct to track the remaining aerial droid, seeing it as another distractive measure in Darth Maul's battle plan. The Kryptonian turned quickly, expecting to see Darth Maul's hideous face on the spearhead of another attack, however, what Kal-El noticed was a shimmering cloud in the distance solidify into the distinct triangular shaped of a familiar silver starcraft. The Sith Interceptor, Darth Maul's flagship, was airborne and armed, having dropped its invisibility cloak and launched a barrage of turbo laser artillery fired from its immense arsenal. The Man of Steel leapt away from the swath of destruction created by the Sith craft; the small tactical victory Kal-El had won by avoiding Maul's use of the Sith Interceptor as a flanking tactic was short lived as a rolling Droideka emerged, halting its forward movement to engage its static force shield.

Kal-El took to the air, backpedaling from the Droideka as it fired its lasers remorselessly at the Kryptonian. Quick to understand that the droid was only effective as a firing platform and lacked mobility, Superman accelerated, the remnants of his cape fluttering behind him as put distance between him and the Droideka's position.

The Man of Steel turned to face forward only to find the Sith had picked that moment to spring his trap.

Superman barely avoided Maul's lightsaber swing as he rocketed by Kal-El in his swoop bike. The Sith had attempted a killing blow, and Maul, foiled with the Kryptonian's resilience, angled the bike, turning his agile vehicle in a tight turn in an effort to reengage the Kryptonian.

Caught in a killing box, Superman sought an escape from the near continuous ambush. The Man of Steel broke through a weakness in the firing line, his outstretched arm steadying his form as he violently accelerated. He glanced ahead of him to make sure he wasn't being led to another Sith ruse. It was clear skies in front of him, but Kal-El could hear the Sith's mechanical platoon rushing to reposition themselves for another attack. The Sith Interceptor moved its rough, triangular form, within firing distance of Superman, but the Man of Steel had already altered his tactics; his eyes searched for the shrouded man, Darth Maul, for the demon-like figure was the source of the attack.

It was he that was to be made to suffer for this affront. And to end this attack, the Man of Steel understood he must end Darth Maul in one fashion or another.

The Sith Interceptor fired at Superman with its heaviest weaponry, each blast strong enough to level a mountain. But, the Man of Steel remained unfazed, his bloodlust eager for an attempt to conduct a true offensive against his tormentor. Painfully shrugging off turbolaser blasts, Superman ignored Maul's mechanical troops, streaking towards Maul and his swoop bike at top speed. The bold maneuver surprised the Sith, catching him off guard.

"You should have followed your backstabbing attack with a few more of your toys," the Man of Steel roared before superheated crimson rays erupted from his pupils; the Sith activated the blades of his lightsaber with barely enough time to deflect Kal-El's heat vision. Nevertheless, the sheer power behind the rays of Superman's optical assault propelled the Sith off his swoop bike, sending Maul into a desperate leap from his involuntarily jettisoned vehicle.

The Dark Lord, landed on two feet, then tumbled and roll, before steadying himself into fighting position; the Sith's Jedi abilities cushioned his impact as he tumbled upon the ground. However, the speed in which his body was dashed upon the ground, disoriented the Sith creature. The swoop bike quickly disappeared from view; Darth Maul lost his only means of escape, but a Sith never truly retreats.

Mounting rage fed the Sith's red hide as he moved his fingertips once more, covert signals to his metal army. The Interceptor, now high enough in the air to perform aerial maneuvers, lanced towards the Man of Steel. A small squad of Super Battle Droids, dispatched from the back of the Sith Interceptor through guide lines, maneuvered behind Kal-El, while a single Droideka rolled into position from the east.

"Attack the Kryptonian fool," the Sith roared uncharacteristically, "blot his cursed figure from the sky! So says I, Lord Darth Maul, your master."

The positioning of all of the Dark Lord's assets, which surrounded the weakened Kryptonian, fired a massive, synchronized volley at the now exhausted Kal-El. He dodged the energy projectiles as best he could, deflecting any projectiles that he could not outmaneuver.

_I must keep my focus on this dark creature. It is his savagery, his focused, animal-like cunning that propels this attack. He is as powerful and skilled as he is evil and soulless._

Then Clark smiled inwardly as he remembered…

_I work for Perry White, so I should be used to those kinds of characters. Live and learn._

He spotted Darth Maul running with Force velocity; though slower than Kal-El's natural Kryptonian speed, Maul's ability was enhanced with an aura of dark energy. With the Sith's mechanical squadron forcing Kal-El to perform a series of aerial acrobatics to remain unmarred by their deadly blasts, the Man of Steel was once again on the defensive, lacking the energy for a sustained battle, nor knowing for how much longer he could continue his survivalist posture.

Yet despite the automaton attack, Superman forced himself closer to Darth Maul; if he had any chance to attack him he must do so now. Clark maintained his focus on the Sith, for he understood beyond words, beyond emotions, that this being was death in the flesh. Death, Clark thought with a moment of regret, for he understood the tragedy of death in a definitive manner that only absolute zero could render into reality.

END DARTH MAUL VS. SUPERMAN - EPISODE II


	3. Chapter 3

DARTH MAUL VS. SUPERMAN

EPISODE III

Martha Kent stood by her kitchen table, collecting herself and playing the role of anchor amongst the turbulent seas of the Kent farm, but beneath her veneer of composure she knew it was sheer folly to hide her feelings from her beloved son Clark. Her hands steadied and she attempted a smile, but she had little energy to spare her hastily thrown together façade of strength. Lost in her thoughts, she revealed too much of herself to her unearthly son in the language of form; her body was her lie detector, and in her brief, private moment of respite, her curtains of strength fell by the waysides to reveal her innermost fear, leaving her raw pain plainly visible to her otherworldly child.

"Clark," she whispered, standing up silently, suddenly, creating a visage of bravery that was lacking but present nevertheless. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes as a smile emerged quickly: Not fast enough. Never fast enough to fool the Man of Steel.

Except this time, Kal-El, Clark Kent to his mother, wanted to believe the lie.

The Man of Steel glanced at his earthbound mother sensing the despair beneath her words. Suddenly, her arms flew to her chest, crossing in front of her breast bone, the tears of sadness developing into those of rage; she approached Clark, opening her right hand. She raised her hand, rearing it back…

"How dare you, Clark!" Martha Kent screamed. "Using your goddamn…" she choked back her outrage, "you're goddamn spooky vision to look into me and my cursed guts! You had no damn right!"

"Mom," Clark said in astonishment for Martha Kent was one of the most even-keeled individuals he had ever met. "Are you kidding? You can't hit me."

Martha Kent held still for a moment before swinging her hand with all her force, raking her open hand against Clark's face. She immediately screamed in agony before moments later a deep, pulsating swelling sensation developed in her fingers.

"Oh my God! Jesus, Clark!" she yelled as she ran towards the refrigerator.

Clark, frozen in shock, rubbed the spot on his face that his mother struck.

"I can't believe you hit me, Mom. You've never hit me," Clark said with amazement, the pain so great in his eyes that he feared raising his pupils to meet hers.

"Clark, I'm sorry, Son," she said quickly, "I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. We all know how city people get so intolerant of country folk nowadays."

Clark smiled at his mother's use of humor.

"I ought to use my heat vision on you. Teach you a lesson. That's the only thing I learned in Metropolis. Shoot first, and ask questions never."

"Ha, ha, Clark. I can't believe…" Martha Kent said as she rubbed her hand, "I've never been that stupid," she said as she wrapped a towel in ice, putting it over her injured digits. "Stupid, stupid old woman."

Clark walked towards her, and tried to wrap a comforting arm around his mother's shoulders. She shrugged, quickly moving away from him. She lifted her hand, spreading an arm's length of distance between her and her son, keeping him at bay, inches apart but far, far away.

The Man of Steel had no choice but to stop. Clark was reminded of the feelings of helplessness of his adolescence; moments when his great powers were never enough to calm the jagged angst of his soul, where the nature of his true self was lost amongst secrecy and fear in interchangeable order.

"I saw Jonathan try to spank you once. That silly man, he knew your block head wasn't nearly as hard as your granite behind, but he kept saying 'the boy has got to learn right from wrong, just like my daddy taught me'. Well, I'm pretty sure Jonathan didn't have bones and muscles tougher than steel." Martha laughed raucously, her mind lost in the memory of her deceased husband. The joviality of her chuckle broke the sullen atmosphere, bringing a reluctant smile to Clark's face. For a moment, Clark forgot what he had seen upon entering the kitchen, lost in his mother's joy.

"He nearly broke his hand. I never saw your father so angry, especially when you started laughing."

"I wouldn't do that, Ma. I didn't laugh at him," Clark retorted, stunned as his mother arched an eyebrow. "I couldn't help it, Mom."

"Oh, so now Clark Kent remembers humiliating his old man," Martha said as she opened the refrigerator again. Clark hears with superhuman hearing the hum of the electricity through the refrigerator, the slight scrapping of a metal tin against the shelving of the interior; all sounds he had heard before and that brought a warmth of his soul. Without thinking, Martha Kent had retrieved an apple pie, homemade of course, setting it on the table where he carved his initials into years ago. Clark recognized the fragrance of the pie immediately, as if the smell itself was the key to a memory of a home he was becoming a stranger to. It was at that moment that he wanted to hug his mother and never let her go, but it wouldn't be right, he thought, there could still be hope.

"Mom, I didn't come here for pie…"

"Are you kidding, Clark Kent?" Martha replied. "That big city girl making you self conscious? You're shaming me now, Clark, letting Lois tell you what you can and can't eat…"

"Mom, it's not that," Clark stammered, "and trust me, Lois can't really tell me what to do with my body. Especially since her body isn't bulletproof." The little boy in Clark subconsciously puffed out his chest, almost flexing his arms in the effort.

Martha smiled as she cut a slice of pie and placed it onto a plate, sliding it towards Clark. She picked off a piece of the crust for herself, biting into it.

"Don't kiss your biceps yet, Casanova. If you get too heavy to lift off the ground, that city gal might be looking towards some of those fru-fru city metrosexuals," she said while chewing. "Besides, super scaredy cat, did you tell her?"

"What?" Clark responded uncomfortably.

"Clark, damnit, has that city taken all the sense away from you. You have got to tell that woman just how deep your feelings have become for her. You've been working at that rag for how long and you're still playing footsie with her. Hell, every girl has her limits when it comes to patience, even if the guy is a Superman."

Clark rolled his eyes. "Mom, you know I hate it when you call me that."

"Why?" She said frankly, "you get annoyed when other people say it?"

"No, but you're my mom. When you say it, it makes me feel like a little kid wearing a cape, jumping off the barn."

"And hot damn if you didn't get a scratch on you," Martha said, thumping the table. Then, without hesitation, she leaned in closer to her son.

"Don't try and change the subject, Clark. You have got to be the man here. Especially when you're the one that wants to take another step in your relationship. Why are you ducking it?"

Clark laughed nervously. "Are you serious, Ma? You're asking about me and Lois? Are you some kind of love therapist now?" Clark said sarcastically. "I'm sure the chickens, and the cows, and the sheep, and…whoever…all appreciate that kind of advice. Me on the other hand, I think I'm old enough to handle my own love life."

Martha Kent leaned back and removed a jar from the refrigerator, struggling to unscrew the cap.

"Well, Clark, I don't know about the cows and sheep, but you should take to heart the love advice I give to the chickens, since you cluck the same way they do," Martha Kent said derisively. She softened before adding, "Clark, you're not asking her to prom, and she's a nice girl, and she accepts…well…she already knows you can open a jar of pickles, even if it's sealed shut with super glue."

Martha held the jar of homemade whipped cream towards her adopted son. Clark smirked as he flicked his finger at the lid of the jar, sending it spinning off as if it were a flying saucer. Martha Kent smiled before unceremoniously dumping the jar's contents on Clark's piece of pie.

"My boy Clark. Jonathan knew you'd be a catch for any woman."

Clark's demeanor darkened.

"Mom, maybe she doesn't want to spend time with someone…that's different."

Martha leaned over to her son.

"Clark, you're saying she might want a regular guy? One who can't fly her wherever in the world she wants to go and heat up dinner by just looking at it funny? Son, guys who can do that end up being keepers in any gal's book."

"She took an assignment in a war zone. She said she needed to find herself again. I…I don't want to talk about…"

Martha pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Now, Clark, you wouldn't have come here if something wasn't troubling you. Spill it, Clark…"

She grabbed Clark's hands with her own.

"Damnit, ouch," she said has she tried to close her right hand, "Feels like my hand is in a cement glove."

Clark leaned over and peered at her hand, using his visual powers to view the musculature underneath her mother's skin, then, the bones.

"It's inflammation of the tendons, Mom. The bones aren't broken, aren't fractured." Clark leaned back in his chair. "My diagnosis, Mom, you're being a wimp."

Martha chuckled, throwing a dish towel at Clark, hitting him in the face.

"Oh you shut up before I try and smack you again," Martha said as she raised her aching hand, "and hit you with my stump. How could you do that to your mother?"

"Mom, sit down, ok, I promise not to coerce you into punching me in the face again."

Martha smiled, "You best not, Superman or not, I'm still your Mom."

The mere mention of the word, "mother" lingered in the air, hanging in increasingly dense contrast between the slits of sunlight casting alternating lines of shade and light over his mother's expressions; equal parts shroud and shine.

"Mom," Clark stumbled with his worlds, his eyes downcast, carefully raising them to meet his mother's. It was a weight that was inscrutable, pained, with a mass that though unseen, held court within the souls of both mother and son. Martha's face revealed a fatigue that bore an affliction of silent turmoil, a soundless battle within a corporeal battlefield.

"Clark, you had no right…" Martha repeated quietly this time, the corners of her eyes moistening, a teardrop precariously balanced on an eye lash. "What's the point, Clark? You already know. I saw the expression in your eyes."

Clark slumped in the wooden chair he sat in as a child. He remembered those years, eating his meals with his parents, never questioning their invulnerability, their immortality. His legs were braced against the chair legs, his fingers tightening into clenched fists of quiet anguish.

There would be winter, spring, summer, fall, with new experiences, but when the chatter of life ceased, and the winds of change quieted, the Kents, his parents, would be there to comfort this unworldly child, this Last Son of Krypton. Already, the pain of Jonathan Kent's death played through his mind; all of the gradual lessons of manhood, or decency, of humanity that his "old man" spoke of. All that resided in the Man of Steel's internal gauge in this crucial moment was an abysmal sense of pain, guilt, and helplessness.

For all the powers that his Krytonian physiology had provided him, he did not save his birth parents, he did not save his adopted father, and as he watched Martha Kent with his all seeing eyes, he knew that there was yet another failure on the horizon, another crack in the myth of his god-like sentience, that was provoked by a fate that was forever tragic and eternally alienated from his realm of control.

"Mom, what…?"

"You would know better than me, Clark," Martha said, her stature suddenly smaller, the bitterness teaming at the corner of every syllable that was spoken. "Specialists, Ha! Yeah, they're special alright, took them a month to tell me I wasn't right. Why do they think I went to the doctor? Cause I was feeling fine?"

"Mom," Clark said through clenched teeth, his expression was granite. "Why didn't you call me? Why…?"

"Clark, I thought you had enough on your plate, being that your presence on this worthless rock changed it forever. Being that the government now spends half of its budget worried about where you go to the bathroom. You should have seen those idiots on the boob tube!"

"I've seen it," Clark answered. Martha eyes flashed over to his son, eventually weakening him. "Alright, Mom, I don't watch it. I don't have to. I live it. But seeing that you never did open that new TV I bought you…"

Martha exhaled deeply; it didn't help. Her body was gripped once more with her son's horrible responsibility. A portion of the weight felt as though it were transferred to her, the mother of a son from another planet. She never felt Jonathan was completely right to keep Clark from the world, but with the changes in attitude from what the press was referring to as the "Metropolis Incident," Martha view of the world subsequently changed and not for the better.

"Why do you think the old TV is broke, Clark?" Martha exclaimed, "I didn't want them to talk about you like that. With their commentary, their analysis, who you are, what you are, they act like they know you. They don't know my son, they don't know all the things you had to do, that me and you father had to do just so their ignorant jackasses can go on living a lie."

Martha picked up a plate and tossed it into the sink, watching it smash into pieces.

"That's what I think of those idiots…'The alien acts like us, dresses like us, but he is a threat'…Damnit Clark, don't those fools know you are us. You saved us. You're the best of us when the worst didn't do a thing while the world was just about doomed."

"They're scared, Mom. Dad said they'd be scared, that's why he…" Clark allowed the sentence to trail off into silence. _That's why he let himself die…_

Martha shrank into her chair, attempting fruitlessly to rub the fatigue from her being, knowing it was a deep seated sense of tiredness that would not be vacated easily.

"I'm sorry, Clark, it's just, I can't see what's happening to me, and I feel like everything, with the doctor, with how I feel right now…that everything is coming to an end."

Clark quickly stood, moving towards her mother.

"That's not true, Mom, don't talk like that. I can't accept that nothing can't be done…"

"You're an adult, Clark, and we both know wishing for things don't make it right. Hell, you have the super vision, you know more about what's going on in here," Martha gestured to her body. It created a chill that ran through the course of his alien physique; a fearful emotion bound with the futility of grief from a growing sense of hopelessness. The Man of Steel knew fear, fear of a sort that could touch him in the most private fashion that would linger with him for the rest of his days.

Martha grabbed her son's hand and leaned in close, the redness of her eyes blighted her vision, and Clark suddenly realized his mother was older, with a sick sense of frailty that he would never be afflicted with. The sorrow welled in his Kryptonian heart that could barely be contained by his near indestructible form.

"Tell me, Clark," Martha said to her son desperately, in an almost pleading fashion, "what is happening to me? Am I going to die? And if I live, what kind of life will it be? Because this Kansas woman will not tolerate just existing. I've lived too long a life to tolerate that type of living. I know it'll kill your soul and leave the shell of your body breathing."

"Mom, please, it's not that bad, it can't be," but Clark was unsure, his mind was fighting an internal battle of its own, denying his knowledge of human biology, blurring the shadows of his mother's condition with faint rays of hope despite a deeper voice whispering words to the contrary. "There are things that can be done. We can move you closer to the city, and you can see the best specialists in the world."

"Clark," Martha said, the sadness faint, but present nevertheless.

Clark was already lost in a desperate plea within himself; wandering amongst emotions derived from a fate of cursed abandonment that turned a blind eye towards his mother's degenerative health.

"You can make it through, I know it, Mom," Clark responded hopefully. His mother searched through the grief in his eyes, finding the man that Jonathan Kent knew Clark would become. The man that would not give up, nor give in, to beings of this world and beyond; despite all cries of surrender, her son would never surrender. He was as much of a Kent as Jonathan would ever be; those born amongst the cornfields of Kansas did not succumb to circumstances easily.

Neither would her son Clark. Even when the end was inevitable.

"I can't bear to see you like this, Mom," Clark stammered, his eyes glistening.

"It's alright, Clark. I'm just a bitter old woman who ain't in the best of health. Don't mind me," she said as stood up and put her arms around her son. His lithe figure shuddered as if graced from a frigidness of frost that he never experienced before. She held him tightly, her tears falling more freely as she turned her face away from Clark's. "Clark, it'll be okay. You're right. It will be alright. Everything will be fine…"

As he hugged his mother, Clark restrained himself from embracing her too tightly.

"Mom, I don't think so. Not this time…" he said over a small, distant voice he scarcely recognized as his own. "Not this time," he said once more, as his mind raced remembering how he stood idly by as Jonathan Kent was swept away from his life forever. "Not this time," Clark said softly, repeating the phrase to himself, knowing that he would never again let go of another family member without a fight; damn the heavens, damn the gods. Damn it all.

END OF EPISODE III


End file.
